


the simple machinations of boat motors

by scarecrowes



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which therapy proceeds as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the simple machinations of boat motors

“Tell me what you want, please.” 

Hannibal’s question is an urgent one, tucked inside his quiet voice and oddly curled words. Will is shaking under the hands pressed neatly to his waist. But that’s normal. It takes concentrated effort to keep himself from trembling in how he’s overwhelmed - and he isn’t concentrating. Not on that. 

Will opens his mouth to answer the question, chokes. Opens his mouth again and stutters, managing.  

“I’d r-rather know what you want.” 

Hannibal cants his head as if he’s surprised by the question, or wondering. Will swallows the voice that says _freak_ because it isn’t Hannibal’s voice and he knows that. 

“I would like to be the only thing you think about.” Lecter says instead, and Will’s laugh is a bark of reactionary nerves and disbelief.

Hannibal watches him, hands still. 

Will stares. Fidgets, a little, knees pressed into the sofa on either side of Hannibal’s lap. 

“We both know that’s not - not possible.” 

And Hannibal smiles.  

“If I could be the focal point which the rest of your world branches from, that would also be entirely acceptable.” 

Will doesn’t know how to process that. It feels too simple, too complicated to choke out, _but sometimes you already are._

Later, much later, with a scar across his gut that feels like it runs miles deep, he’ll walk down a flickering fluorescent hall to a glass barrier and a folding chair. He’ll think of this, again, all the patterns he chased before. 

_I know them better than they do themselves. I take them in pieces; I make them useful when they prove they have no other use. I don’t toy with them - no more than is just, no more than is deserved._

_It’s impolite to play with your food._

It’s the other pieces that kept him from letting it click into place. The thin mouth on his jaw, the black-red eyes that he can unflinchingly see. Odd dreams of a house with a garden buried under snow; pencil drawings of a palace with trees like rotting hands around it. 

Even half asleep, Hannibal doesn't tell him about a little girl’s laughter, fat tiny child’s hands that were too rough with everything she wanted, loved. 

He simply says, _she passed some time ago._

And the grip on his waist is a vice. 

_I leave them behind to teach you. I’ll coach you, train you. Trust me. Only me. Soft and careful with an edge underneath, a knife folded into silk._

_And when you feel its cut, you will know that it all was true._

_This is my design._


End file.
